Ugly
by LuxaLucifer
Summary: When he drew the scalpel across his arm, he liked to pretend he was operating. Rated for persistent self-harm.


Rated M for persistent references to cutting and self-harm, and for a single use of strong language. Gera is Guffaw, Black Jack's friend from the chapter...I don't remember, the laughing one. His high school friend who always laughed. Anyway, I hope you like it.

* * *

"So who do you like, Kumiko-chan?"

A giggle, but no response. God, why were they talking about this stuff? Didn't they know anyone could hear them? He'd move, but they might see him get up. Besides, the tree he was sitting under was comfortable.

She giggled again, and the girls around her all made excited squeaks.

"Who is it?"

I'm not telling you," said Kumiko smugly.

This annoyed the other girls; he could hear it in the way they all drew breath at the same time.

"I bet he's ugly," said one girl. "Ugly, but nice. Is that it?"

"Does he play board games?" said another. "Is he part of a dorky club?"

"Is he the worst in the class?" asked a third. "That's it, isn't it? You like Hiro-kun, don't you?

"I think I know who you like," said one girl was the honeyed voice of someone who is about to be incredibly mean. "It's Kuro'o, isn't it? That's who you like!"

The group erupted in a combination of giggles and ews, and his stomach twisted.

"Of course I don't like him," objected Kumiko. "He's so creepy!"

"Yeah, Yui, what're you thinking?" chided a friend of Kumiko's, obviously standing up for her. "The way he looks at you is so creepy...his eyes are almost red."

"Do you spend a lot of time looking at his eyes? Maybe it's _you _that likes him!"

Kumiko's friend hastily denied the claim, and he rolled over on the grass, wishing he could plug his ears.

"The dark side of his face is so nasty," said one girl. "It's all shiny. Do you think he'd let us touch it?"

More giggles.

No, he thought angrily. I would not let you touch it.

"I bet it would feel tight," said Kumiko, obviously glad to drop the subject of her crush. "Tight and warm."

"Ew!" said the others.

"It could be all dry, cause it's not his," said another.

"What if...it's scaly!"

The girls all squealed at that, and he didn't care if they saw him anymore. He struggled to his feet and limped away, hands in his pockets. He left a horrified silence behind him as they realized what they'd done.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Kuro'o, but we need that bed for tonight."

He nodded. He hopped out of the hospital bed and unceremoniously shoved the items on the night-stand into his bag, which he kept under the bed for situations like this.

"What happened?" he asked casually. "There were three rooms open last night. Accident?"

"Fire," sighed the nurse. "Four burns victims. We had to release a patient early, so you're not the only one."

"I don't care," he heard himself say, and hated the glare she shot him.

Feeling guilty for his sarcasm, he slunk off to Honma's office, standing outside the door until the doctor returned from taking care of the new patients.

"Kuro'o!" said Honma in surprise. "How long have you been waiting out here?"

He shrugged. Two hours, at least, but he'd be embarrassed to tell Honma that. "A patient took my bed again," he said.

"Yes," said Honma, unlocking his office door. "He rather needed it."

"I know, I mean..." Kuro'o trailed off. It had come out wrong. Everything he said always did.

He dropped his bag next to Honma's couch and stretched out on it , vainly trying to fluff the hard pillow on it.

"Are you sure you don't want to come home with me?" said Honma. "We'd be welcome to have you."

He wanted to. He'd always wanted to. But he never let himself say yes.

"I'm fine here," he said, back protesting against the springs in the old sofa. "I always have been."

He didn't see the sad look Honma shot him as he left, only the enveloping darkness, the sounds of Honma shutting and locking the door behind him unnaturally loud.

* * *

"Is that your son?"

Her voice was unnaturally chipper, eyes shining brightly as she grinned at them. Fakeness oozed through every pore. Her gaze flitted from Kuro'o to Honma and back, searching vainly for a family resemblance.

For a second Kuro'o hoped that Honma will say yes. He wouldn't mind being his son, if only for a shopping trip.

"No," said Honma. "I'm his doctor."

Kuro'o closed his eyes and wished he'd said anything but that.

The whispers started while Honma chose a shopping cart.

_"Did you see his face? He must've been in a horrible accident."_

_"Accident, huh? Accident or no, it should be his parents taking him shopping."_

_"Do you think they're dead?"_

_"Do you think they...you know...did it to him?"_

_"I can never stand mothers like that. How can they live with themselves?_

Honma didn't seem to hear, glancing at Kuro'o and not understanding the set jaw and unhappy eyes he saw.

"Hey," said Honma. "I know it's been hard for you, but you don't need to be so angry all the time."

_"Why a doctor, though? Do you think he's...all there, mentally?"_

_"Who knows?"_

"I'm not angry," he lied.

Honma sighed. "Of course you're not."

_"Were you looking at his fingers? They're scarred too."_

_"Were they? I hadn't noticed."_

He shoved his hands in his pants.

"I'm sorry," he said dully. "Sorry to ruin your shopping."

_"Look how angry he is. So ungrateful to that doctor who's helping him."_

_"No wonder his parents did that to him._

"You're not ruining my shopping trip," said Honma, his turn to lie.

Kuro'o tried to smile, but it was hard.

_"Frankenstein's monster."_

_"Freak."_

Even Honma was not oblivious to these, and when he turned in shock, his eyes were slits of fury. "What did you just say?" he hissed, wrapping an arm around the boy who limped at his side. "Did you call him a freak?"

The two women with the shipping cart behind them paused in their whispers, looking shocked and embarrassed. Honma gritted his teeth and pushed the cart away from them, never letting go of Kuro'o.

"I'm sorry," said Honma. "I didn't even notice."

"Don't worry about it," said Kuro'o flatly. "I hear it all the time at school."

* * *

"What happened to this scalpel?"

Kuro'o's face was carefully blank as he examined the scalpel Honma held out to him.

"How'd it get rusty?" said Kuro'o.

"I found it in your shower," said Honma, a note of testiness creeping into his voice.

"Maybe one of the other patients left it there," said Kuro'o.

"Do you think I let my patients have ready access to scalpels?" said Honma sharply.

Kuro'o looked down and didn't reply.

"You're not the easiest teenager to get along with, but you've never been a thief," said Honma. "See that you don't become one."

"And what if I do?" said Kuro'o, grinding his teeth at his own stupidity. What couldn't he just keep his mouth shut?

"I can always send you to an orphanage, Kuro'o. Goodness knows why I haven't already. Growing up in a hospital...it obviously isn't good for you. If it weren't for your surgery next week, I'd be tempted to do it now."

Kuro'o's fingers gripped the sheets under him. "No, I-I...I'm sorry."

Honma nodded sharply. "Don't steal."

When Honma left, Kuro'o couldn't help feeling under the hard hospital bed to the scalpel hidden beneath. He didn't need to steal, he thought as he held the cool metal in his palm. As long as he had this, he had all he needed.

* * *

"Why are you wearing that uniform?"

"Are you talking to me?"

His voice came out gruffer than he meant it too, but he was used to it by now.

The girl rolled her eyes up at him and pointed to his long sleeves. "Yes, I'm talking to you. It's summer. Why are you wearing that uniform?"

"I can wear whatever uniform I want," he growled. "It's none of your business."

She raised her eyebrows at him and smirked. Why did anyone like girls? They were so...problematic. So were men, though. Humans in general, he supposed.

"You're hiding something," she said.

He ignored her and stood up from his desk, reaching for his crutches.

With one swift movement, she kicked them down. The noise they made as they hit the floor was loud enough that people on the other side of the classroom looked.

"If you don't tell me why you're wearing that uniform," she said. "I'll make you pick them up. That would be embarrassing, wouldn't it?"

He knew was she was saying. She was calling him a cripple, and the shame of it was sending the blood rushing to his face. The rough cotton of his sleeves brushed against the cuts and sent a shiver of pain up his arm, reminding him why he couldn't tell her.

"I-I," he blustered, embarrassed and hating her for it. He wanted to tell her that he just had surgery. He wanted to tell her that she knew nothing about him. He wanted to tell her to fuck off.

He slid out of his chair and onto the floor, tucking his bandaged legs underneath him as he reached for his crutches. Her shoe twitched, hovering over his hand. He froze, and looked up at her from the floor. Her mouth was open, and as he watched, her pink tongue darted from her mouth to lick her lips.

Her shoe didn't move, and he cautiously grasped the crutches and pulled them towards him, out of breath by the time they were in his grasp. There was a stitch in his side, and he pressed a hand to the bandages on his stomach as he pulled himself to his feet.

"It's none of your business," he grunted, fingers gripping the bars on the crutches as he left the room.

* * *

When he drew the scalpel across his arm, he liked to pretend he was operating. He had steady hands as the blade sliced his flesh. He'd have steady hands when he was operating, he knew it.

The smell would hit him before the pain.

When he opened his eyes and saw the blood dripping from his arm into the shower drain, the illusion was over. He was still a teenager with no friends, still a piece of shit who wouldn't deserve them if he had them. He'd stare at the wall as he dried himself and pulled his clothes on so he didn't have to look at his body. How could someone who hated himself ever amount to anything, let alone a surgeon?

Even so, he made sure to sterilize the blade afterwards.

* * *

"You really don't want to join the archery club?"

"What part of no don't you understand?" he snapped, picking up his pace so the annoying girl trotting after him has to speed up too.

"But I always see you with those darts! It would make the teachers like you more, I'm sure."

"I don't need the teachers to like me."

"But you'd be good, I'm sure you would!"

"I don't care! Why does our school even _have _an archery school?"

"Because it's fun! You'd see if you joined!"

"I like darts, not bows, okay? Leave me alone!"

She reached for his arm, and he was so concentrated on out-walking her that he didn't react fast enough to stop her from grabbing him. He let out an involuntary yelp of pain as her grip aggravated his cuts, and he wrenched it away from her.

She stepped back, looking as though he'd struck her.

"Oh my god," she said. "I forgot, you're crippled, aren't you? You had crutches all last year, and here I am, nagging you about joining my club. I'm so sorry!"

Of course. Of course she'd think that was it. Even Honma assumed the bandages on his arms were from his surgeries. A simple lie always confirmed it.

He was sick of lying. In that moment all he wanted to do was tell her the truth.

"I'm not crippled," he said.

She stared at him blankly. "Then why...?"

He couldn't tell her. What was he thinking? They'd shut him up in an asylum, and then how could he live his shitty life then?

"It's the scars," he lied. "They hurt sometimes. Even when I play darts. So stop nagging me about your stupid club."

She narrowed her eyes. "You don't have to call it stupid."

"It's not as stupid as you," he said.

He turned his back on her, stuck his hands in his pockets, and started walking.

* * *

When his cuts had healed, he began wearing short sleeves. He didn't stop, but moved onto his legs instead, mentally documenting the differences between blood letting from limb to limb.

He was never confronted about it. No one ever said a thing. At first he wondered if they disliked him so much as to not even notice him, but he soon realized that wasn't it.

He was already so scarred and broken in their eyes that a few more scars hardly made a difference.

He thought he might hate them even more than they hated him.

* * *

"It's time for your checkup, Kuro'o."

He grunted and put down his book, not meeting Honma's eyes. He'd been getting checkups for years, of course, once a week for a long time, but he hadn't had a full body one since he'd recovered from the last surgery. Since then, a lot had happened, a lot Honma didn't know about.

A lot he didn't want him to know about.

"I'm healthy," said Kuro'o. "I've been checking on myself recently."

Honma sighed, his huge nose quivering. "You know you're not supposed to use hospital equipment."

"Then what equipment am I supposed to use?"

"Kuro'o, don't be difficult."

He sighed and stood up. "Here?"

"No," said Honma. "Not here. You know that. In the examination room, where all patients are _examined._"

Kuro'o shuffled after the old doctor into the nearest examination room. "The hospital's not the same without you," he said conversationally. "They have to send the toughest cases away now, and they're..."

_A lot meaner to me, _he wanted to say. But Honma didn't want to hear that.

"Strip," said Honma in his most professional voice. "You know the drill, you've done this before."

"Why'd you quit?" said Kuro'o, shucking out of his pants and shirt with the efficiency of one who had indeed done this many times before.

"I..." began Honma awkwardly. "I messed up on a surgery. I...no, not now. I'll tell you someday."

"Whatever," he said, now in nothing but his underwear. He was sweating, palms sticky as he prayed that Honma didn't see the added scars on his legs. He kept his arms crossed as he turned around.

Honma gave him a precursory glance and retrieved his stethoscope from around his neck, getting Kuro'o's heart rate before anything else.

Too fast," said Honma. "Are you eating well? Exercising?"

He paused, staring more intently at Kuro'o, was beginning to feel faint from the sheer amount of knots his stomach had twisted into. What would Honma do if he bolted? Make him do it again, probably. And he wouldn't have any clothes on if he ran, just underwear, and then_ everyone_ could see...

"Are you nervous?" said Honma. "Is that it? Kuro'o, we've done this before. I'm sure you're fine. I don't normally tell patients, but you're smart enough to know- there have been no complications at all, I think you're finally cured."

He couldn't have smiled if he'd wanted to, only managing a weak nod.

"At least I thought so," said Honma slowly. "Kuro'o..."

He held Kuro'o at arm's length, prompting him to tighten his arms across his chest. He wished he hadn't, because Honma noticed.

"Give me your arm," said Honma, in his most authoritative voice. Kuro'o didn't dare disobey, hating how meekly he held out his arm.

Honma let out his breath in a hiss. "Where did all these scars come from?"

"What scars?" said Kuro'o, miraculously keeping his voice flat. "They're the same scars as always. I do have a lot of them, you know."

"Is that what you tell people?" said Honma, his voice dangerously quiet. "And they believe you, don't they? People don't want to see things they don't like."

"People don't want to see _me_," said Kuro'o, despising himself for how weak his voice sounded.

Honma hesitates, but Kuro'o had already filled in his response for him; they don't see him because they don't like him, and they don't like him because he isn't a likable person.

Honma gripped his arm and ran his calloused fingers over Kuro'o's forearm, from the elbows to his wrist. Kuro'o could feel the ridge of each scar as his thumb rubbed over it. He swallowed hard. This was it. He'd tell, and they'd make him move. They'd been looking for any excuse to kick him out of the hospital for ages.

"Do you remember how you got your legs back?" said Honma softly.

"Um," said Kuro'o, baffled. "I worked hard. I walked across Japan."

"By yourself," amended Honma. "You walked across Japan by yourself, with legs that barely worked. You were twelve. I didn't think you could do it, but you did. I was very proud of you, Kuro'o."

The muscles in his jaw worked, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to sob or smile. He didn't do either.

"So?" he managed.

"Tell me that story. I'll write it down, and maybe even publish it. Then other kids like you can read it and feel better. Learn something, even."

Honma doesn't add to his statement, but lets it be silent as he pulled Kuro'o in for a hug. Kuro'o was taller than him now, and his nose practically rested on his shoulder. He didn't hug back, ether, but let his arms stay at his sides. By the time he remembered he should hug back, Honma was letting go.

He thought it was a good hug.

"Okay," he said hoarsely. "That sounds...that sounds nice."

"Good," said Honma.

There was another moment of silence where Honma took in the scars on Kuro'o's other arm and his thighs. Kuro'o hoped that Honma wouldn't say anything. He couldn't stand it if he did.

"Try not to do that anymore," said Honma quietly. "If you can help it. Don't give yourself more scars, Kuro'o. You've got more than enough as it is."

* * *

The blood sluggishly trickled into the shower drain. The cut wasn't deep but the pain pricked at him even so. He stared at the scalpel in his hand. He hadn't done this in months, but something had made him retrieve it from under his bed and start up again.

He didn't feel much better. He'd thought maybe that it would make him miss Gera less, but it didn't. His friend was still gone, and he was upset. This wouldn't change that. But, he thought guiltily, it might help a little.

It was the very last time he cut.

* * *

"Doc?"

He didn't want to put down his newspaper, but he did. That was how it usually worked with Pinoko.

Pinoko's walk was different than usual. Less confident. He supposed he wasn't in trouble then. She only walked this way, all shy, when...oh no, she wasn't about to confess love, was she? He had no idea how he'd deal with _that._

"Doctor?" she asked. "I've got a queshtion."

He meant to say 'ask away', but hat came out as an unidentifiable grunt. Fortunately, Pinoko had long ago learned to speak Black Jack.

"What is it?" he said tiredly. For good reason, at least. He'd done two heart surgeries in three days, and the middle day hadn't exactly been a break, considering he'd operated on a patient with stage three lung cancer.

Pinoko grasped his large forearm with her small hands and pulled it down so she could see it better. He didn't remember doing it, but at some point he must have rolled his sleeves up to his elbows.

"What are these shcars?" she asked. "They're different."

He didn't know what to say.

"You're right," he replied finally. "They are. How did you know?"

She traced one with a chubby finger. "They're shtraight, and they don't have the tic marks like the others onesh. And they're all in one place."

"It took you a long time to notice," he said.

She looked at him with wide eyes. "No it didn't. I've jusht never shaid anything."

He opened and closed his mouth in shock. "I...thank you."

She tilted her head, confused. "What did I shay?"

He chuckled cryptically and returned to his newspaper. "I did them, Pinoko. It was a long time ago."

"You're not making any shense!" she cried out. "You always do thish!" You always think you've explained shomething but you haven't!"

He continued to chuckle. Laughter was, after all, a sign of intelligence in mammals.


End file.
